Who else has seen the moment parleying snipe on disappearing shoals,
wind frothing at their feet, lift in one loud whirring of wings, so the last
are first—a testament time illuminates?
How many years ago even as now
did another first see morning implement with gold the margins of inlet
and marshland, carelessly, as the wind blew? Winds, we can tell, are jealous
winds and take away the shore, night steals away the gold cup
of day, stars to follow—like a serene flock of birds—and lives are taken
in any order, till the last survivors are first, singing themselves alone.
Haven't you heard shorebirds sing this, in a few notes, and known?